I looked at Thomas in the front seat.

“Change of destination, Thomas,” I said.

“The private airfield in Blue Bell.”

“Yes, Mrs. Pierce,” he said, adjusting the rearview mirror.

“It’s Hartwell, Thomas,” I said quietly.

“Of course, Miss Hartwell,” he corrected himself, his eyes meeting mine in the glass.

He turned the sedan hard to the left, heading toward the expressway.

Beside me, Sloane was staring at her hands.

“What is going to happen to me?” she asked.

“That depends on how much you help us now,” I said.

“My father’s lawyers will handle your statement.”

“If you give them everything on Nolan’s shell companies, they will ask the prosecutor for leniency.”

“I have the files,” she said, tapping her laptop.

“Everything is on this drive.”

“Every wire transfer, every forged invoice, every email.”

“He made me do some of it, but I kept records of everything.”

“To protect myself.”

“Smart,” I said, though my voice held no warmth.

The gray sky began to spit rain against the windshield.

The wipers clacked back and forth, a steady, hypnotic rhythm.